


Tumble Dry

by renquise



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ymir usually hates doing the laundry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumble Dry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [djsoliloquy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/djsoliloquy/gifts).



> So DJ wrote me [this lovely bit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/943568) about curtains, and I am finally completing the great post-apocalyptic domesticity exchange with terribly fluffy laundry fic!

The uniform chafes like hell when it’s hot out, especially when you’re doing maneuvers in the sun for fucking hours, and Ymir knows that she isn’t the only one sweating like a pig when they’re finally dismissed, dusty and sweaty. 

It’s Christa who suggests doing the laundry, but it’s Connie who knocks Jean into the river, and Jean's flailing that accidentally catches Christa, who falls in with a squeak, her washboard clattering to the ground.

“Haha, oh man, Jean, you should have seen your fa—“ Connie says, and Ymir allows herself to enjoy the brief moment of ‘oh shit’ that passes across Connie’s face, followed by a short glance at the river that indicates that he’s probably going to save her some trouble and throw himself in. 

Ymir never gets to find out if that’s accurate or not, considering that they both land in the water shortly after with Sasha spitting water out of her mouth and laughing. 

"Score stands at Sasha, one, everyone else—" The laughter turns into spluttering when Christa manages to pull one of Sasha’s feet from under her, though, and then wrestles herself up onto Ymir’s shoulders. 

Christa yells something after Connie and Sasha along the lines of, ooh, were they ever going to get them, but honestly, there are Christa's slim thighs on Ymir’s shoulders and the spur of her heels in Ymir’s hands, and Ymir isn't paying too much attention, at least not until Connie attempts to hoist Sasha up onto his shoulders, gives up when Ymir nearly pisses herself laughing at the attempt, and clambers onto Sasha’s shoulders instead. 

It's pretty much inevitable that Mikasa was going to throw herself in after Eren when he fell prey to Jean yanking on his ankles, but it might have been overkill to pull Eren up onto her shoulders and methodically dunk everyone. Annie reluctantly places herself on Reiner’s shoulders only when Jean argues that letting Bertholdt and Reiner team up was unfair as hell, and it pretty much all goes downhill from there. 

It's a near thing, but they manage to scramble out of the river before they got reprimanded, and Ymir ends up sacked out underneath a tree with a lump of wet laundry and Christa lying on her stomach, trying to stifle her giggles.

“It’s too hot,” Ymir says, but she doesn’t shift Christa off her stomach.

“You’re always too hot,” Christa says. She’s smiling and out of breath, her damp hair falling in her face, and Ymir feels a sudden tightening in her chest. It’s familiar, by now. 

Christa wrinkles her nose when Ymir presses her fingers against her cheek, the skin blanching before the rosy red comes rushing back. 

“You kinda burned,” Ymir says. “Geez, you've got the wimpiest skin—we weren’t even in the sun that long.”

“Well, you’re getting more freckles than I know what to do with,” Christa said, shrugging off Ymir’s hand and poking at Ymir’s face. Ymir licks the palm of her hand, and Christa wrinkles her nose with a snort, wiping her palm on Ymir’s shirt. It’s kind of a laugh and kind of a reproach, and exactly what Ymir wanted. 

Christa’s eyes keep on dipping to Ymir’s wet shirt, water still caught in her eyelashes, and then darting back up, and Christa’s hand drifts to the scattering of freckles over Ymir’s shoulder and then comes to rest over Ymir's heart for a moment, before thumping her open palm on Ymir’s chest lightly.

“Come on, help me hang it all up before it dries all wrinkled,” Christa says, and Ymir chucks the load of damp laundry at her face, just to see her splutter a bit.

Laundry is small, and human, and delicate, and it doesn’t feel like it should fit in her long-fingered hands, but sometimes, it does.


End file.
